To Keep Her
by PickaPicChallenge
Summary: As Bella prepares to marry James in the society wedding of the season, Edward arrives at the rehearsal dinner with a plan of his own.


**Pick a Pic Challenge**

**Title:** To Keep Her

**Banner #:** 214

**Pairing:** Edward x Bella

**Genre:** Romance/Angst

**Rating/Disclaimer:** M, for language and sexual situations. Twilight and all characters are the property of Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Summary:** As Bella prepares to marry James in the society wedding of the season, Edward arrives at the rehearsal dinner with a plan of his own.

**To see all entries for this contest, please visit (pickapic).(twificpics).com**

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**To Keep Her**

There are so many reasons I shouldn't want her. For starters, she's my best friend's sister. Plus, there's the fact that she doesn't seem interested in me that way. And arguably the most troublesome wrinkle of all? She's taken. What can I say? It's her. It's always been her.

Jasper is well aware of my infatuation with his younger sister, and jokes that I'm a masochist. To him, the ring on her finger and the man who put it there should nullify my feelings for her. Mind you, Jasper's middle names are straight and narrow. He's played it safe as long as I've known him, avoiding anything risky or beyond the pale, avoiding happiness, really. His entire life was laid out for him the day he was born, and he's followed each step without fail. To me, failing isn't always a bad thing. It reminds me I'm not perfect, and keeps my ego in check.

Among those raised in the midst of wealth, arrogance is nearly universal. It's like the rich person's tattoo. For some, it's an insubstantial mark, monochromatic and barely noticeable without close study. For others, it's full body art, completely obscuring the person with its vivid palette and complicated design. I'm at the sleeve-tattoo level. Though my family has money, and plenty of it, it's a more recent acquisition than most.

The experience of living with less made me hard-working, diligent, and focused. I've earned what I have on my own merits; I was never interested in riding my parents' coat-tails. I know who I am, remember where I came from, and go after what I want. That makes Bella Whitlock fair game in my book.

And unlike Jasper, I'm not tethered by family obligation, another benefit of my meagre beginnings. My parents' expectations revolve more around my happiness, than whether the women I date will fit properly into society. It's no wonder that Jasper's a pessimist. I would be too, if my father told me who to fuck, let alone marry.

That's the biggest reason he thinks the situation with his sister is hopeless. A marriage to the scion of the Witherdale family checks all the boxes for Charlie and Renée; it adds an 'appropriate' branch to the Whitlock family tree. It's messed up, disturbing even, but I can't blame her for falling prey to their opinions and expectations. It's all she's ever known.

James Witherdale is not the sort of man I thought Bella would fall for, although admittedly I never saw her falling for anyone but me. He plays his part, shaking the necessary hands and smiling on cue, but he's too dim-witted to value what he has. We've moved in the same circles for years, and I've witnessed the way he uses people. His own personal brand of arrogance tattoos every inch of his skin, seeping into his blood and blackening his heart. He sees Bella as a possession, nothing more. I'm sure of it. And those around her turn a blind eye to his inadequacies, defining his worth by the size of his bank account rather than the calibre of his character.

Mercifully, they've been on opposite ends of the country for the majority of their relationship, and carefully watched when they're together, especially by me. Jasper once compared Bella to a virgin sacrifice, saying she'd been cast into the fiery lava of Mount James to calm the angry Witherdale tribe. The analogy isn't lost on me. Bella will lose her life when she marries that asshole. She'll go on breathing, but it won't be long before she'll be dead inside. He'll drain her kindness—a succubus feeding upon her generosity—until he's sapped every ounce of virtue and goodness she has.

Not that I'm a hero. Every move I've made where she's concerned has been selfish at its core. Over the years, I've equated watching over her with keeping her, and imagined her into every corner of my future. She is what I wait for. She is what I crave.

She was not quite sixteen when I first told her I loved her. I was young and foolish, made starry-eyed by her beauty and more Glenlivet in my system than I care to recall. She rolled her eyes and giggled, pressed her sweet lips to my forehead, and whispered that she didn't believe me.

Two years later, at her debutante ball, I got ahead of myself again when I swept in to rescue her from a handsy dance partner. She accused me of being a bully.

"You can't want that boy. He's completely undeserving of your attention."

"What do you know about what I want?" she asked, those same lips now set in a furious scowl.

"I know everything about you, from the perfume you wear to the flowers you love. I know you hate fog because it makes your hair frizzy, and that your favourite time of day is dawn. You only—"

"That's just surface stuff. You don't know who I am inside."

She may as well have accused me of not being a man. I'd made a study of her for the last seven years and knew her like a book I'd read a hundred times.

"I know that a clueless jock who places no value on anything beyond scoring is not the right guy for you."

"You don't know anything." Her angry voice didn't match the sorrow in her eyes.

"One day, some day, I hope you'll see things differently," I said, softly cupping her cheek.

She pulled away from me as a tear spilled from her wet eyes, whispering, "Leave me alone, Edward."

I did what she asked of me. We were friends, and I wanted her in my life. I didn't want to risk alienating her further by imposing my feelings on her, no matter how subtle my pursuit of her was. I would still spend time with her, continue to safeguard her as I'd always done, but I vowed to keep my physical distance. She would have to be the one to close it.

Locking away my feelings was not an easy task. In many ways, I suppose I didn't. I still opened doors for her, offered to drive her home, and made sure she had something to drink when we attended the same parties. When I was with Jasper, I included her in our plans, if the situation allowed it. I hungered for any interaction with her.

With time, she began to trust me with her secrets, confiding in me about her mother's dictatorial control over her life. She wasn't even allowed to choose a college or major without Renée's influence. Bella and I were closer than ever before, but still so far from where I wanted to be. There were moments I thought she might be interested in me—when she thanked me for a birthday or Christmas gift and her kiss lingered just a beat too long. On occasion, I caught her staring at me. In the seconds when I held her eyes, she seemed as transfixed as I was. Still I waited. Nothing was ever concrete enough to act upon.

On the eve of her twenty-third birthday, Bella came to visit me before returning to grad school. We talked for hours about everything and nothing, and as she was leaving, she said, "Sometimes I wish you weren't my brother's best friend."

"Why's that?"

"I never know where the lines are between us."

"Lines?" I asked, my heart drumming loudly in my chest. "I wasn't aware we had any... lines."

"I worry that our friendship puts you in an awkward position with Jasper sometimes." She looked away from me. "Plus, I know you see me differently because of your relationship with him."

"I don't see you as 'Jasper's sister,' if that's what you mean. You've always been my Bella."

"So you don't feel weird about keeping things just between us?" Her tone was dubious.

"No. If you wanted Jasper to know something, you'd tell him."

"Do you think it would be hard for you to be in his life, if we stopped being friends?"

"Are you planning to end our friendship?" I laughed, trying to hide my fear.

"Of course not," she said.

After promising to be in touch, she kissed my cheek and left. It took everything in me to let her go, to remember that I'd promised myself I wouldn't push her, that I had to let her come to me.

Only she didn't. James slithered into her life not a month later.

My error was one of underestimation. I saw James as a harmless distraction, a spoiled egomaniac whose interest in Bella would last only as long as his juvenile attention-span allowed. Reassuring me was the fact that their dates always seemed markedly public, not intimate—exclusive clubs, upscale restaurants, movie premieres—places where people would see her on his arm. By the time I understood what was happening, he'd already popped the question.

Given who it came from, I was sure the proposal was a joke, a premature offer that was more ploy than honest commitment. So I waited for the punchline, to hear news of their break-up—his cold feet or infidelity.

It never came.

Jasper wasn't happy about the engagement, but he didn't think it as tentative as I did. It turned out that his father was nearly bankrupt after a series of bad business investments, and a deal in the works with Alistair Witherdale would rescue him from financial ruin. Appearances and social status were everything to Jasper's mother—Renée's narcissism was legendary—and Bella's marriage into the Witherdale family would be an insurance policy in more ways than one.

When all else failed, I waited for Bella to come to her senses and admit her mistake, but texts and emails had fallen by the wayside, and the opportunity to see her one-on-one had become non-existent since the engagement was announced. Someone—her mother, her wedding planner, her piece-of-shit fiancé—was always around. The closest I'd come was sneaking into her room one night after I'd been out drinking with Jasper. One look at her peaceful face and I lost all my nerve. Deep down, I knew a drunken demand for her to break things off with James wouldn't fly at all. If ever a situation required finesse, this was it. I decided to bide my time.

As the wedding drew closer, I noticed how pale her skin had become, how tired she always appeared, but what bride wasn't at least a little stressed out? Jasper assured me she claimed to be happy, but my intuition told me she was playing the part. Or maybe that was just what my heart wished. If marrying were her choice, if I thought her partner would cherish her the way she deserved, then letting her go might have been easier, but only marginally so. I did not plan to give her up without a fight.

Now I'm on my way to the rehearsal dinner, with the urgency of my predicament choking me. Jasper secured my invitation by playing the sympathy card, claiming he needed his best friend's support because his recent break-up made the wedding festivities emotionally distressing. In reality, Jasper and Rosalie Hale were the victims of a failed matchmaking attempt, and he encouraged her to follow her heart when she fell for his friend Emmett. I never asked Jasper to lie, but I'm grateful for his help. This is my one and only chance to change Bella's mind before she walks down the aisle.

I take my place in line behind the parents of one of her bridesmaids, and wait to greet the 'happy couple.' From a distance, it's hard to recognize Bella. Her eyes are concealed behind false lashes and smoky green shadow better suited to a runway model than her natural beauty. Her makeup coordinates with her risqué dress. The style is more revealing than anything I've ever seen her wear and, to me, her discomfort seems obvious. Her shoulders are slouched; her hands fidget nervously.

As I get closer, I hear her voice, though it's not at all as it should be. Reserved, almost mechanical, it lacks its usual warmth. She welcomes her guests with air kisses and ersatz embraces that remind me of her pretentious mother, not the guileless twenty-four-year-old who owns my heart.

When it's my turn, I muster a smile and offer my hand to James. He gives a curt nod, mumbles a hello, and then his attention is elsewhere. Bella's body is angled away from me as she politely listens to Mrs. Weber's account of Angela's wedding. If she senses me next to her, it's not evident, though part of me wonders if she's ignoring me on purpose.

James is preoccupied with the gentleman behind me—someone from his side of the family, judging by the ridiculous ponytail—when Bella turns toward me and freezes in place. It's as if my presence puts her into a state of suspended animation. She's slow to offer her hand, eventually thinks better of it, and hugs me instead. Her mahogany hair skims my face as she touches her cheek to mine. It's not nearly enough contact. I hold on to her a little longer than I should, and brush a kiss near her ear.

"Jasper didn't tell you I'd be here?" I quietly ask, fighting the urge to bury my face in her neck.

"He forgot to mention it. Thank you so much for coming."

Her formal tone warns that she's trying to keep me at arm's length. I pull back to look into her eyes, but she won't meet my gaze. What it means is anyone's guess. I want to press the issue, but I let it rest. James will overhear anything I say.

"Thank you for having me." I lean in and softly add, "I don't want to keep you from your other guests, but I'd like to speak to you later. You can spare a moment for one of your oldest and dearest friends, can't you?"

A blush moves across her cheeks. The thought that it's in response to my words sends a thrill up my spine. I'm probably assigning way too much meaning to it, but when she agrees with a nod of her head to meet me, I don't care if I'm being foolish. I gently touch her elbow, letting my hand run along her forearm as I pull away. "I'll find you after dinner then."

I make my way to the edge of the room to observe, hoping to pick up more clues about what's going on. Renée flits through the crowd, subtly directing the servers toward the tasks she wants completed. Charlie has corralled his friends into the far corner, ignoring the hoopla with the aid of his two favourite vices: Scotch and cigars. James, whom I expected to be playing the attentive fiancé, appears to be avoiding his bride-to-be. It's curious, to say the least, considering he's marrying her in two days. I've counted three different drinks in his hands since I arrived. At this rate, he'll be passed out within the hour, which would suit me just fine.

Bella appears composed, but her attempt at mingling is half-hearted, at best. She smiles and speaks when spoken to, but moves about the room without engaging anyone. I know she hates being the centre of attention, and I do my best to focus on this fact. Otherwise I'll concoct more self-indulgent justifications about her discomfort and how it's a direct result of her reservations about marrying James. I'm a prick for wanting her to be miserable, but that's exactly what I'm hoping. If there's any chance of convincing her not to go through with the wedding, it begins with her discontent.

After an hour of cocktails and hors d'oeuvres, a buffet is set out for the fifty or so guests. Bella's plate is all but empty, and what little food she's chosen is being listlessly pushed around with a fork. It's probably just nerves, but I wonder if she's feeling unwell. Surprisingly, she's not drinking anything but water. It's practically the only thing she's touched during the meal.

A possible explanation for her avoidance of alcohol dawns on me, and I feel so nauseated I can barely contain it. The idea of James fucking her is bad enough, but if he's knocked her up, nothing will stop this marriage. It would explain a lot about why Bella and James have stayed together, and why everyone in her life seems so on board with the wedding, when I would have expected Bella's friends, at the least, to be questioning it. The thought disgusts me, and I try to distract myself with the conversation at my table.

As soon as her plate is cleared, I'm on my feet. I don't care if I make a scene. I need to know the truth. As I start towards their table, the scowl on James's face is clear from across the room, and I watch in disbelief as he throws his napkin at Bella, shoves his chair back, and stalks off. My blood boils instantly.

She excuses herself, scarlet-cheeked, her eyes averted. Her embarrassment is palpable, though I doubt any of her guests even noticed what took place. I follow her as she heads for the bar. The bartender pours her a glass of red wine, which she takes with shaking hands, gulping it until she's drained the contents. Her eyes meet mine for a moment, but before I can speak, she turns and bolts out of the room.

Checking first that no one is watching, I rush after her, thinking through the possible explanations for what I just witnessed. They're both tired and stressed out from wedding-planning. She's pregnant, and James is not pleased. Perhaps he told a story that embarrassed her, and she reproved him. It could be any or all of these things, and it doesn't really matter which it is. She needs someone who's on her side, and I'm her guy.

I find her in the coatroom, crouched down behind one of the racks on the back wall. Her head is down, covered by her arms in an attempt to hide from the world. She's done this her whole life, but it still seems odd to see a grown woman curled into a ball, especially one who should be happy because she's about to be married. I sit down on the floor beside her, and lay a hand on her knee. I know she won't speak first, so I give her a few seconds to adjust to my presence before I begin.

"So I'm guessing you're not pregnant."

She laughs dryly. "If you only knew."

"Tell me, then," I suggest softly, imploringly. She's still not looking at me, and while I want to pull her chin up so I can see her, I won't. She's like a caged animal right now. I know from experience that she needs to open up on her own. "You can say anything to me."

She nods but keeps her head down. After a moment, I see water marks on her clothing.

"You're going to ruin that dress with your tears, although something tells me you won't give a flying fuck if you do."

"Is it that obvious?" A giggle bubbles out of her, followed by a few sobs. She clamps a hand over her mouth.

"To me, it is."

Her crying continues, and I trace soft circles on her knee to comfort her, swallowing my instinct to sweep her into my arms.

"Are you going to tell me why you're dressed like an escapee from America's Next Top Model? Because I have a few theories. Would you like to hear them?"

She nods again, this time lifting her head. Her eyes show me the pain she can't yet find words for. Looking into them, I realize I'd take a lifetime of silence with her, as long as she wasn't hiding from me.

"Well, I know Renée can't stand that your beauty has surpassed hers, so this dress is her way of hiding your elegance." She doesn't respond, so I continue. "Then there's your father, who still thinks of you as his little girl. He chose a dress that reminded him of something your mother would wear, because he'd rather pretend that you're still playing dress-up in your mom's closet than admit you're a grown woman now. I can't really blame him for having difficulty letting you go. I'm having a pretty hard time with it myself." I clear my throat to dislodge the lump that's formed, and wait for her to respond.

"No," she whispers, "He hates everything about this dress."

"That leaves James and you. Either you've decided to abandon your usual style in favour of a more revealing one, possibly because you're considering a career in stripping or prostitution..." I laugh to show I'm joking, plus I'm hoping to break the tension a little before I hit her with my real theory. "Or James is trying to change you into someone you're not, which is insanity with a woman who's so perfect the way she is."

Choking on a sob, she launches herself at me. Her arms wind so tightly around my neck that she's almost strangling me, but I don't complain. I hold her close, and move one of my hands up and down her back. Her grip loosens after a minute or two, and she repositions her body to sit sideways on my lap, tucking her head under my chin. I rock her gently and whisper soothing words, assuring her that she's okay, that I'll keep her safe.

I'm not sure how long we stay like this. My ass is numb from the hard floor, and one of my legs is asleep, but Bella finally stops crying. I take the opportunity to shift us a little, sliding us back a half metre so I can lean against the wall for support. I've thought of a hundred questions I could ask to make her talk to me, but each one comes with its own set of landmines. One false move and I'll blow all the progress I've made. When it comes to her, I have infinite patience, but I'm all too aware that her family will be looking for her sooner rather than later. When I'm on the verge of giving up hope and just asking, I hear her whisper.

"What you said earlier…" She tips her head back and looks up at me for a second, then rests her head on my chest again. "Well, unless you believe in Immaculate Conception, there's no way I could be pregnant."

"Thank, God," I mutter, biting my cheek to keep from smiling. Relief and exaltation mingle inside me. It was a stupid conclusion to jump to; Jasper would have told me. But the fact that she's never had sex with James? Well, that's a dream come true.

"I would, however, make a good Virgin Mary," she deadpans.

I blink, and blink again, trying to make sense of her joke, and I feel like the wind has been knocked out of me when eventually I do.

"You're a virgin," I say, in disbelief.

"It just never felt... right with anyone."

"Not even James?"

There's silence until, finally, with a strangled sound from her throat, she answers.

"He doesn't want me." Her voice is full of embarrassment. "I'm exactly the type of girl he's expected to marry, but he has 'no interest in fucking me' as he so charmingly put it recently."

"That's not funny, Bella." In what world is it possible that any man wouldn't want her?

"He's looking for the same kind of marriage his parents have; a dutiful wife for public display, and, on top of it, the freedom to screw whomever he wishes. As long as it's not me."

"Then why does he constantly have his fucking hands all over you?" I ask angrily.

"I don't know! To humiliate me?" Her tears begin anew. I pull her closer, pleading with her to stop crying. It breaks my heart, and I'm already having trouble thinking after being inundated with so much information so quickly. I wait for her to calm down before I speak.

"You can't marry him, Bella. You have to see that." I realize this is the moment I've been waiting for since this preposterous engagement was announced. If she doesn't admit the relationship is a mistake now, I've already lost her.

"I don't have a choice, according to my mother."

"You do!" I insist. "I'll help you through it. I'll speak to your parents. Hell, I'll even tell James, if you want." I almost laugh out loud at the pleasure that would give me. "I can do whatever you need—just say the word."

"She slapped me when I told her I couldn't marry him. She thinks I'm ungrateful, and that I should just suck it up when it comes to the way he treats me. She even told me that once we're married, it won't matter who he sleeps with."

"Your mother is a piece of work," I say grimly. It takes all my self-control not to call Renée a selfish bitch.

"It's been made very clear to me that there's no turning back now. She's monitoring everything I do—where I go, whom I see; she even spies on my emails and texts."

"Fuck them all, then. We'll run away together. I'll get you out of this town so quickly, it'll make their heads spin."

"But Charlie's in trouble, Edward. I'll blow his deal with Mr. Witherdale if I call off the wedding."

"Did he tell you that?"

"No, he'd never put that kind of pressure on me. I was thinking that I'd only have to stay married to James for a year or two, just long enough for my dad to get back on his feet."

"Don't be a martyr, Bella. Charlie is resourceful. He'll find another way. I know of other interested investors." I don't mention the part about it being me if I can't find anyone else.

"This is easier," she says with resignation. She's drowning in the riptide of her parents' mistakes, and she's already given up. She won't even try to save herself.

"Easier for whom? For your self-interested mother, maybe, because it sure as hell isn't easier for you. James is a lying jackass who will never be worthy of you. I can't imagine why he wouldn't want to sleep with the most beautiful woman I know. It only proves he's the moron he's constantly advertising himself to be. I'm glad he's never touched you. The thought of it makes me physically ill."

Out of nowhere, her mouth is on mine, pressing insistently against my lips like I'm her life raft.

"Bella, stop." As much as I want her, this is just her desperation and anger.

"I don't want to stop." She shifts in my lap until she's straddling my legs, leaving enough room for her hand to slide over my hardened cock. The wool that separates us does nothing to temper her touch. A million tiny shocks pass between us, leaving me burning for more. "Please don't be like them. Don't tell me what's best for me without ever asking what I want."

"You're not thinking clearly," I say in a weak voice. "Neither of us is."

"My mind has never been clearer. Screw my mother, and James, too, for that matter. How great would it be to piss him off by marking his territory?"

"So this is about pissing off James and Renée?" I try to keep the hurt out of my voice.

"No, this is about being with someone who cares about me, someone I want. I've always imagined you'd be an incredible lover." Her hand's on my dick again and my brain is trying to leave the building. What she's saying sounds so surreal. I want to believe her, I really do, but I'm skeptical, and a little tongue-tied.

"You've imagined being with me?"

She just looks at me and pulls my hand under the hem of her dress. I should be stopping her. I should be the one keeping his head. But my thoughts are completely hijacked by the idea of finding her aroused. I hold my breath while she guides my fingers down the front of her panties, smiling like a fool when I feel damp silk against my fingertips. The contact makes her groan. I caress her a few times, getting harder with every noise she makes.

"He doesn't work you up like this, does he?" Her eyes close as she shakes her head. "You don't ache for him like you're aching now." It's not a question. I want to prove how well I know her—better than any other man could ever hope to.

"Let me take you back to my place," I say, hoping it only comes out of my mouth once. It's repeating on an endless loop inside my head.

"They're probably already looking for me. We'd never get out of here without being seen."

This is not how I want to do this—on a cold, hard floor, rushing, and worrying about getting caught. "You want to do it here?" I ask her.

"I don't want to lose my only chance to be with you." I know exactly what she means.

She begins to ease her panties down her hips, then holds my shoulders and shifts her weight as I help her remove them.

Her hands move to my tie and begin to unknot it before I still them. "We should leave our clothes on, in case we're discovered."

She immediately drops her hands and focuses on my pants, popping the button and unzipping my fly. I expect her to be more tentative, but she doesn't hesitate. She releases my cock and begins to stroke me.

"I think we can skip the foreplay," I tell her, pulling her body against mine. As much as I want her touch, time isn't on our side. "You're already wet, and I'm beyond ready for you."

I reach for my wallet to grab a condom.

"We don't need to use that." The colour rising on her cheeks reminds me of the pink roses in my mother's garden—of something delicate and pure, but at the same time, so intoxicating. I'd be amused by her self-consciousness, if I weren't so turned on.

"I'm on the pill; you don't have to worry about getting me pregnant."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure. I want to feel you."

She rises up on her knees to give me room to line us up. I hold my cock with one hand, and steady her with the other. I give her an encouraging nod, and when she begins to move, I grip her hip to keep her advance slow. It's probably going to be uncomfortable at first, no matter what we do, but it will be worse if she hurries.

I'm barely inside her when she winces.

"It'll be okay. Just take your time."

She needs to relax. My impulse is to kiss her, but despite the current intimacy of our bodies, I'm apprehensive. With Bella, a kiss seems like the definitive act of communion, and I wonder if I can risk it.

"Come here," I whisper, slowly leaning in to her. My approach seems to trigger some kind of magnetic field between us—as I move, she moves—until, suddenly, my mouth is upon hers. The instant she responds, I'm flying. She pulls me to her and deepens the kiss, and I can't remember why I ever had doubts. Emboldened, I push my hips up while I hold her in place. A tiny groan escapes her.

"Let me make you feel good," I plead, ghosting my lips over hers as I speak.

Her concession is silent. Her body communicates for her, opening itself to mine. She closes her eyes and exhales as my tip slides in. I murmur encouragement about how well she's doing, and tell her we're almost there.

"Just do what feels good to you."

I can only assume she took me at my word, because after some gentle movements, she angles her body just so and sinks down on me completely. One of us gasps; the other takes a shuddering breath. Who did what—I couldn't say. I find myself drifting in a place where all I do is _feel_.

She recovers before I do. I'm only aware of it because the friction returns. And only then do I realize that she must have stilled completely for a few moments. I force my other senses to register, the ones that don't involve my dick. There's a sighing sound that isn't coming from me—I double-checked— and the fleeting scent of a floral shampoo. Again, not me, because I just don't smell that good. I taste wine on my tongue, and since I drank beer with dinner, that's Bella's too. I decide to open my eyes, though I don't actually remember screwing them shut. The vision of her astride me and of my hands upon her convinces me the situation is real. If you can die from happiness, I'm pretty sure I just did.

Her movements are a little awkward while she tests what feels good and what doesn't. I'm content to sit back and observe her, gripping her ass with my hands to aid her motions. There are moments where she's so engrossed in what she's doing that she seems to forget I'm there. A gentle squeeze and she's with me; but witnessing her dream-like abandon to her sensuous self is such a rush that I let her fall back into it.

Smiling, in a daze, she encircles my neck with her hands and arches her body away from me. As she tips her head back, her breasts thrust towards me, straining against the fabric that now barely covers them. My heart pounding, I whisper, "If we were undressed, there are so many things I could do to you in this position." To illustrate my point, I flick my thumbs over her nipples, but the beading on her dress gets in the way of any serious teasing.

When I stop touching her, she inches closer to me, bringing her lips into kiss territory again. I wait impatiently, hoping she'll take the initiative, but she doesn't. Instead, she presses her body flush against my chest, and rolls her hips. She takes me so deep inside her that I'm sure I'm going to lose it.

She stares into my eyes as she slowly rocks against me. The rhythm is spellbinding. Maybe it's the strain on my face that finally makes her lips cover mine. I'm not sure, but I don't really care, either. All that matters is that she did it on her own. I slip my arms around her waist and return her kiss, knowing in that moment that I have to keep her. There is no going back to a life without her, no finding this feeling—or anything even approximating it—with anyone else, and no moving forward alone.

All this time, I was sure that fucking Bella would be the ultimate release, because I would be sharing the depth and intensity of my feelings with her. I was so, so wrong. Letting her fuck me is unimaginably better. Every touch from her is proof of her desire for me. Her tenderness makes it easy to believe she loves me. Even if she doesn't, seeing the way she lights up makes me sure she could one day. I could survive on that hope for a very long time.

These thoughts push me to the brink. My muscles tighten; my breathing labours. I'm in the fray, but losing, as I always knew I would. She is my Achilles' heel; the one I could never resist. All I can hope for now is to make her unravel before I do.

I slip a hand between us and begin to tease her with my fingers. With my other hand, I cradle the back of her head and hold her gaze. I'm not sure whether anyone's ever touched her like this, whether she's even touched herself like this. "Let me take care of you."

She closes her eyes and presses against the stimulation I'm providing, offering herself to me, discarding all restraint. Then suddenly her lips are crushing against mine and she's opening to my thrusts and my mouth is capturing her moans until, at last, with a broken cry, she peaks and shatters against me. Sensing her release, I explode inside her.

When I open my eyes, she's still panting.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

Blushing, she nods and drops her head onto my shoulder. A feeling of peace settles over me, a feeling of rightness. She's safe in my arms, and I feel like a prince.

"Are _you_ okay?" Her question catches me off-guard. Could it be she feels what I feel?

"Never better, honestly," I say in a joke-y tone, trying to lighten the mood.

She doesn't respond, not even with a smile, and I begin to worry I've offended her. I want to give her some kind of reassurance, so she'll know I don't regret what we've done.

"You made me feel incredible," I tell her, more seriously. "Thank you."

She fingers my tie, tracing its tone-on-tone paisley pattern over and over again. I wish I could read her mind. I so badly want to know what she's thinking.

"I'm the one who needs to thank you." She lifts her head and looks into my eyes. There's only sincerity there; no distress or compunction. It makes me believe that being with me meant something to her. I just don't know what, and I'm wavering on whether I should ask, afraid I might not like the answer.

"Is it trite to say it was my pleasure? You have to know how I feel about you."

She looks away. Each second of silence feels like an eternity, but I dare not open my mouth. I wait for her to speak.

"Please don't," she says.

"Don't what?"

"This wedding is like an avalanche. It destroys everything in its path. You can't oppose or stop it. At best, you can sidestep it, or hold on to something so it doesn't kill you. You're what I held on to—what I'll always hold on to—but you can't save me." She looks at me sadly.

"I can try."

"This isn't your mistake to fix."

I don't really care who made the mistake or who's holding her to it. The only thing that matters to me is what she wants. "Can I ask you one thing?"

"Edward." She fixes me with a warning look, one that tells me I should stop, but she doesn't understand what she's asking me.

"Just one thing, I promise. For the sake of clarification." She nods, so I continue. "Do you love him?"

Her eyes go wide. "Love him?" she asks, as if my question isn't self-explanatory.

"Yes—at all?"

She won't know it, but to me, it means everything. Even if James is the biggest jerk on the planet, there's nothing I can do if she loves him. I'd never be better than her second choice. But if she's trapped in someone else's scheme, I sure as hell can do more than let her live a miserable life with a man she doesn't care about. It's a contrived union, it seems to me now, with Bella diminished to a chess-piece, a commodity of social and financial capital—nothing but a useful nexus between the Witherdale and Whitlock families.

"I thought I did," she says, quietly. "At the beginning, he was a gentleman. And then we were on opposite coasts. He was at the University of Florida; I was at Stanford. I thought I knew who he was, and my mother was so approving of him. But as soon as I said yes, he changed. The real James came out. The one I fell for doesn't really exist. He was just a figment of my naïve imagination and James's deception." Tears spring to her eyes, and this time, I can't hold my tongue.

"You haven't done anything wrong, Bella. You were meant to fall for his games."

"I feel so stupid."

"You're only stupid if you go through with this wedding."

"I don't know how to stop it. I've tried."

"Do you trust me?" I ask.

"You know I do."

"Then meet me later," I say, determined. "We have a wedding to plan."

Time is of the essence, not just for getting us out of here unseen, but to make provisions for tonight, too—and without tipping anyone off. By the time we face her parents, it will be too late for them to do anything. Everything will already be in motion.

We straighten our clothing and make ourselves presentable. We'll rendezvous at my place, after the party ends. I divulge only as much as she needs to know for now, promising her I'll give her the details later that evening, once I've made certain I can line everything up.

I tell her to leave the coatroom first. She'll have been missed in the time she was gone and she has a facade to maintain. No one who sees me leave five minutes later will think twice about it. Just as she begins to go, I reach out for her hand and give it a gentle squeeze. She looks over her shoulder at me, smiles, and squeezes back. It means 'we're in this together' and 'until later' and 'thank you.' I can see it in her eyes, as well as feel it in her touch. The second the door closes on her is the loneliest of my life.

By the time I get back to the party, James is giving Bella the third degree about where she's been. From a distance, I see her mouth the word 'nauseated.' When Renée butts in and feels Bella's forehead with the back of her hand, I know the excuse for her absence has been accepted.

I stay at the party just until people begin to leave, so I don't arouse suspicions. Jasper has already noticed a change in me, and though he can tell something's up, he's kind enough not to question me when I blame it on the wedding. I see Bella from across the room and can't resist touching her one last time before I head out. I make my way through the crush of well-wishers and take her hand again. Our eyes meet, but before she has the chance to say anything, I walk away. It isn't much of a goodbye, but I don't really want it to feel like one. I want things to feel unfinished between us. I want her to come back to me.

**xxx**

As soon as I get back to my apartment, I phone my parents to make sure they're attending Bella's wedding. It's more important than ever for them to be there, though I can't tell them why.

"We're definitely going," my father assures me, adding, "How are you doing with things?" He knows how deeply I care for Bella, how hard I've been taking her engagement.

"The rehearsal dinner wasn't terrible," I say, keeping it vague. I wish I could tell him everything, including my plan, but it's too soon. Bella could still back out or say no. "I should get going, Dad. I have some things to take care of tonight."

"Alright, son. Your mother and I will see you at the church then."

The next few hours pass in a flurry, as I call in favours from various business associates. Once I have everything I need, there's nothing left to do but pace. I won't be able to settle down until Bella arrives, and I know it could be a while.

When I finally hear her knock, I run to the door and throw it open. I'm not sure how she got into the building without buzzing me, but she's here, and that's all that matters.

"You came," I say without thinking, drinking her in. It's as if she's come back from the dead. Her awful, heavy makeup is gone, revealing her fair skin and lovely eyes. She's the picture of comfort in dark jeans and a sleeveless blue top.

She looks quizzically at me. "You thought I wouldn't?"

"I wasn't sure," I admit. I take her into my arms to welcome her—and because I need the closeness—but the hug is awkward.

"You're certain you want to do this?" she asks. Indecision is written all over her face.

"You're not making me do anything I don't want to do." I take her bag and invite her in, showing her my bedroom as a formality. She's been to my place enough times to know where it is.

"These are pretty." She walks to the bed and runs a hand over the sheath dress lying closest to the edge. It's one of three, all of a similar silhouette, but they couldn't look more different. Aside from the lace at the waist, the first is simple and unadorned. The second is heavily embellished, giving it a silvery shimmer and a sexy, sophisticated feel. The last one is elegant—the epitome of Bella's style. The fabric wraps around the breast and waist, gathers on the opposite hip, then drapes gracefully to the floor.

She studies the wedding gowns, each one on its own and then all three together, her face giving nothing away. When she turns back to me, she finds me on one knee, holding out a blue Tiffany's box. It's a little cliché, but given the time constraints and the engagement ring that I want cast from her hand as soon as humanly possible, it will do.

"Marry me?" I ask. I hope I've managed to banish from my voice the quaver that threatens to betray how much I want this.

"Do you think it will work?" She stares at the box as if it might hold the answer. To me, it does—or more precisely, my grandmother's art deco diamond ring. Regardless of the timing or reason for my proposal, I'd always planned to give it to her.

"Yes, I do. You can't marry anyone if you're already married, and your parents won't have the marriage annulled, if you're already pregnant."

"But I'm not pregnant."

"We know that, but I have medical records and an ultrasound that say you are."

"My parents will have me examined by their own doctor."

"And their doctor sits on the hospital board with my father. I'll ask Dad for help, or I'll tamper with the records myself. Most of the tests can be faked successfully. And if I have to, I'll steal the transvaginal ultrasound wand, just so you won't obsess about it."

She doesn't laugh like I want her to.

"What if you're caught? You could be arrested."

"Falsifying medical records is a felony that carries a five-year sentence or a $250,000 fine. Considering my lawyer's hourly rate, he'd better be able to get me off with just the fine."

Again, my attempt at humour falls flat. She's not even smiling.

"Bella, you're getting way ahead of yourself. We need to get you through the next forty-eight hours before we worry about anything after that. The pregnancy is a contingency, if and when your parents force the issue of our marriage."

"I don't know what to say."

"Say yes." _Or better yet, tell me you love me and want to spend the rest of your life with me_, I think. But I'll take a simple affirmative for now.

I watch the uncertainty in her features melt away as she makes up her mind. "Yes."

I get to my feet and take her hand in mine. Replacing the wrong ring with the right one is exhilarating, and I can't help feeling a little smug at the appreciative gasp that leaves her lips when she sees it on her finger.

"I hope you see a dress you feel comfortable wearing." I won't prejudice her decision any further, since she'd be breathtaking in any of them, but I hope I've picked something she likes.

"This one," she says, pointing to the gown I'd have predicted as her choice.

I smile and nod happily. "I can have the judge here in an hour. Will that leave enough time for you to get ready?"

"We're getting married tonight?" The disbelief in her voice cuts through me, and I try not to show the hurt I feel.

"We risk interference with a public ceremony. This is simpler, and it will prevent your marriage to James. That is the ultimate goal here, isn't it?" My overall objective differs vastly from hers, but this is a step in the right direction. "We can still go through with the wedding on Saturday, but this will cover us on all fronts, if something happens to prevent it."

"Okay," she agrees, with a weak smile.

"I'm not looking to make a spectacle this weekend," I say, to reassure her. "We'll go to your parents that morning to inform them of our marriage. Barring an annulment, I'll consent to whatever the three of you decide about the church. I don't have any dilemma with the religious end of things, so re-marrying you in front of God, with your friends and family looking on is fine."

Her voice is so hushed that I barely hear her. "But it will be a lie."

"No more a lie than you marrying James."

Tears fill her eyes. My comment wasn't meant to hurt her, but it does, all the same. I open my arms in unspoken apology, and she moves into them, slipping her hands around my waist.

"Marrying me is the lesser of two evils right now, Bella. It will get you out from under your mother's thumb, which is what you said you need, and you'll be free to leave me whenever you want to." It will kill me to let her go, but it's better to have her for a little while than never at all.

I am defenceless in her embrace, and it hurts all the more that she has no idea. I rest my cheek on the top of her head, allowing her affection to chase away my doubts.

**xxx**

An hour later, by the glow of candlelight, Bella walks toward me to become my wife. She is so beautiful that my chest aches when I look at her. In her steady hands she carries a bouquet of white calla lilies—her favourite. I pretend her radiant smile is for me, and not a function of her escape from James. She seems elated, like a bride should be, and her happiness is worth any price I might pay in the future.

Alice and Jasper flank us as witnesses. My sister and Bella's brother couldn't have been more willing, despite being sworn to secrecy.

The judge directs us to join hands and repeat the simple vows he recites. When I promise to love and honour Bella all the days of my life, I earnestly mean it. The oath ends fittingly, in words that ring true even in our situation.

"I take you, with all your faults and strengths, as I offer myself to you with all my faults and strengths. I will help you when you need help, and turn to you when I need help. I choose you as the person with whom I will spend my life."

Bella's eyes never leave mine as she echoes the pledge. She means the words as much as I do, but they convey gratitude, not love. She's promising to make the best of our situation, which is about as much as I can ask.

We take turns slipping on matching white gold bands, with more guarantees of our love and fidelity.

When I finally pull back her veil, the tender look on her face reminds me of the way she looked at me in the coatroom. It stirs me, inciting hope for a future that isn't yet mine to keep. But God, how I want it. I kiss my bride, savouring the moment and all the promise it holds.

We drink champagne and toast each other. Alice's heartfelt words make the situation feel dangerously real. I expect Jasper to be more sobering when he speaks, but his wishes are just as sincere and hopeful. Even Bella's disposition is unexpectedly bright. When she smiles, I think of her mouth on mine, touching her in forbidden places, and how badly I want to taste her. Chances are I won't have her in my bed for a long time to come, but that doesn't stop desire from coiling within me. My lust amplifies every time she brushes against me or puts her hand on me, which is often. Don't get me wrong, I like it very much—too much—but it blurs the lines between reality and fantasy, and I'm already struggling to keep my libido under control.

Once we're alone, Bella excuses herself to change, then returns a minute later to ask for my help. The dress needs to be unlaced before it can be unzipped, and she can't manage it on her own.

"There's no fast way to do this, is there?" I mumble rhetorically, hoping she won't object to how slowly my hands are moving. This is as close to undressing my bride on our wedding night as I'm going to get, and I want to take my time, as I would if I were doing it to make love to her. I grow harder with each tug of the ribbon, wanting her so badly that it's hard to breathe. When the corset ties are completely undone, I separate the satin panels to reveal the zipper. Without permission, I lower the slider just as unhurriedly. Bella stares at the ground, oblivious to my desire, waiting patiently for me to finish. I plant a soft kiss at the base of her neck when I'm done. It's so much less than I want to give her, and on any other night, I probably wouldn't get away with it, but tonight it seems appropriate.

She thanks me and disappears into the bedroom, regrettably taking her bare skin out of my reach. I pour myself a Cognac and drop down onto the couch, sipping the amber liquid while I unbutton my jacket and loosen my bowtie. The realization that I'm waiting for my wife to change makes me ludicrously happy. I don't care that it's not real. I'll deal with real tomorrow. Tonight, delusion is just fine.

I'm staring at the bedroom door when she emerges wearing the clothes she arrived in. Rather than put on her heels, she carries them, which tells me she's tired. After a day like she's had, I'd be exhausted. I offer her the last of my drink.

"What are you having?" She sits down on the sofa and wafts the glass beneath her nose.

"Château de Fontpinot XO."

She giggles, and the delighted sound sends a shiver through me. "En anglais, s'il vous plaît. Or am I supposed to know what Château de Fontpinot XO is?"

"It's Cognac," I reply, watching as she licks her lips and tips the tumbler to her mouth for a taste.

"It's pretty good." She samples it again. "It's sweeter, not like that smoky crap Charlie loves."

I get her a refill, along with one for myself, and settle back down beside her. She rests her head on my shoulder between sips, while we silently finish our drinks. I know she has to go, and so does she, but we're both ignoring it. I understand why she's not in a rush to go home. She doesn't want to face her parents, especially if she's caught sneaking in at three-thirty in the morning. Me? I'm just not ready to give up our charade.

"I guess I should leave," she says, swaying a little when she gets to her feet. She's in no shape to drive home—well on her way to being drunk, if she's not there already.

"I'll call you a cab."

As I stretch my arm across the back of the couch to grab my phone, she reaches out to stop me. "Don't bother. I'll just sit here for a bit. I'll be fine in a few minutes."

"I'll make you some coffee then."

I set the pot to brew and rejoin her. She snuggles into the side of my body as we wait, pulling her feet up on the couch.

"It's so warm here."

"It's the Cognac."

"No, it's you." With the pins out of her hair, it falls in shiny ringlets down her back. I run my hand along them, absorbing their sleek softness.

"I'm pretty sure it's the Cognac," I say with a laugh.

"It's you. You have a Bella-instinct or something. It's why you know what I need, even when I don't."

"I care about you."

"I care about you, too." She yawns, settling her full weight against me.

When she closes her eyes, I give her a gentle warning. "Don't fall asleep on me."

"I won't."

"Bullshit," I mutter. She's already halfway there.

In the kitchen, the coffee-maker loudly gurgles its readiness.

"Thank you for today… for everything." Her voice is so faint, it's as if she's talking in her sleep.

"Thank you for marrying me," I murmur. She turns her face into my chest and presses a kiss against the tuxedo shirt I'm still dressed in. A few moments later, I hear her even breathing. I try to rouse her, but she's too deep under to register my attempts.

I shift so I'm a little more reclined, and adjust her position in my arms. I'm a shitty sleeper, so I'll be up in an hour. By then, Bella's catnap will have revived her enough to let her head back to her parents' place.

Tangled in her softness, sedated by her warmth, I find myself fading fast. "Do you think you could ever love me, Bella?" I whisper to the sleeping girl in my arms.

As oblivion takes me, I dream her quiet reply.


End file.
